


Telescoping Effect

by relenafanel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Masturbation, Snark, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relenafanel/pseuds/relenafanel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale's new flat turns out to be in the direct line of sight from Stiles' bedroom window.  The one with the telescope. </p><p>Stiles always did appreciate a stellar gazing experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telescoping Effect

**Author's Note:**

> No, I'm serious about the tags. Basically, Stiles watches Derek through his telescope. For months. And finally catches him masturbating.
> 
> I have no idea how it got to be so long. Basically, it takes me about 6,000 words to work up to a semi-porny point. I like the slow-burn, ok?

 

_**x.x.x.x.x.** _

Stiles took up astronomy when he was thirteen, making a serious commitment to expanding his interest in outer space to an interest in staring at the stars.  It was the only way he could think of to throw his father off the scent of the fact that the moment he set up his mother’s old telescope in his bedroom he noticed he could see right into sixteen year old Amanda Stewart’s bedroom.  He didn’t only use it for the purpose of staring at older girls changing – Stiles found the entire neighbourhood entertaining to watch, from noticing the way Mrs. Derksen entertained her husband’s cardiologist on Wednesday afternoons while Mr. Derksen was cheating on his diet at McDonalds, or the way Jimmy Richard down the street was dealing pot from his back porch.

The stars?  The stars were boring.  People were the interesting thing to spy on, and Stiles could see small patches of area between houses from his bedroom window, including a good section of downtown.

He was incredibly pleased that his parents had bought a house on one of the hilly parts of Beacon Hills.  Though ‘hills’ wasn’t exactly descriptive of the landscape.  It was more like ‘slightly elevated’ but it was ‘slightly elevated’ enough that Stiles could see the top floor of buildings three blocks away.

Which was awesome.

Until the moment Stiles walked into Derek Hale’s new loft and recognized it, not because he’d been there before but because it had laid vacant for years, a black hole in his otherwise interesting line of sight.  He recognized the dusty old couch that he had once witnessed a homeless man squat on for about a month, and a kitchen some idiot had once tried to turn into a meth lab before Stiles had finally risked his telescope privileges by mentioning it to his father.

And yeah, now that he was really thinking about it, his dad had mentioned that it was owned by a Hale, so if he ever happened to see anything else going on, Stiles should report it.  Then his father had given him a knowing look that generally said he was aware of what Stiles really did with the telescope, and Stiles was forced to bring out the big guns and explain Drake’s Equation in detail.

The Sheriff had responded with “So long as none of the aliens complain about you watching them, I don’t care.  At least I know where you are most evenings.”  He looked pained for a moment.  “Don’t do anything I’d have to arrest you for… or answer for during a neighbourhood watch meeting.”

That told Stiles two things.  One, his dad had no idea about Amanda Stewart’s penchant for changing in front of her window, and two, his dad was _awesome_ at upholding the letter of the law.

So, when Stiles arrived at Derek Hale’s new flat that he may or may not either own or be the next in a line of homeless squatters, he sneered at the couch and refused to go anywhere near it.  He was also able to locate the bathroom with very little difficulty, and when Scott opened a door to what happened to be a closet, Stiles was already half-way up the incredibly stupid spiral staircase.

Not that he hadn’t witnessed the first homeless bum occupant to use the closet for the exact purpose Scott was after, and it was pretty obvious that Scott could tell because he recoiled very quickly and stared at Derek in horror.

“Didn’t you clean in here?” Scott reproached, eyes wide in horror.

Stiles laughed, because of course Derek hadn’t cleaned.  Even if Derek had standards, this was a huge step up from all the other places Stiles assumed Derek had been living since returning to Beacon Hills, like his car, the burned remains of his house, a cave, a picnic bench in the preserve, that stupid warehouse, etcetera.  Basically, the flat was Derek’s equivalent of moving from a flophouse to the Ritz, and who felt the need to clean the Ritz?

There was an actual roof overhead and everything.

And windows.

And a hole in the wall that was done on purpose.  For aesthetics for getting from one room to another – like a doorway!

Because once upon a time this had been a seriously nice condo.

Then Stiles was faced with the bathroom and the realization that he probably would get tetanus just as easily in a place without an actual roof as he would in a bathroom Derek hadn’t even bothered cleaning when he moved in.

There was serious credence to the idea that Derek was squatting.  Maybe he had no idea that he might technically own this place.

That was kind of tragically hilarious.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

The thing about Stiles knowing he had a direct line of sight into Derek’s new flat was that he was better off not thinking about it.  Not thinking about things served him well.

He didn’t care.

He really didn’t.

Derek was his own person and Stiles did not want to watch him sleep on the homeless couch.

x.x.x.x.x.

Derek’s apartment was dark.  Balls.

x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was cleaning.

No, really, he was.  Stiles had woken up, managed to remember to eat breakfast, checked his various email and social media accounts, and finally gave up on the idea that he wasn’t going to spy on Derek today.

Stiles ended up spending his morning laughing at Derek’s pathological need to impress Scott.  He even scrubbed out the closet, and when it was (Stiles was sure) sparkly and bright and not dusty or scented of urine at all, Derek took his leather jacket and hung it up, one lonely item in his lonely apartment that consisted of everything he owned.

Stiles laughed for almost an hour, because Derek’s life was so goddamn tragic.

x.x.x.x.x.

“Home is where you hang up your leather jacket,” Stiles said, throwing open the closet.

“No, Stiles, don’t!” Scott shouted, already recoiling with his hand over his nose.

But the closet just smelled slightly like Pinesol to Stiles’ nose.  Pinesol and leather from at least four different jackets hanging neatly in a row.  It made Derek’s closet look less pathetic and more home-y, like he had actually settled into it.

Scott blinked.

Damn.

Stiles had obviously missed some steps in the Derek-cleaning-the-closet process.  In fact, it made what he said sound kind of motivational and less like he was calling attention to Derek’s sad, lonely existence. 

Derek just looked kind of secretly pleased that all his hard work had paid off when Scott shrugged and handed Stiles his jacket to hang up on a spare hanger.

x.x.x.x.x.

It wasn’t that Stiles was angry that he had missed Derek become slightly less pathetic about his closet because the kitchen still looked like a rat could scurry across it at any point.  When Derek had invited them to stay for supper, Scott had suggested eating out instead with a look of alarm at the cupboard Stiles knew, for a fact (because he watched Derek open it the day before) held about three boxes of cereal, granola bars, and juice packs.

Pretty much all the food Derek had stored.

Derek had also looked at the cupboard before agreeing that sandwiches from the bakery-slash-café down the street would be tasty.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was definitely cleaning the kitchen.

Spying on Derek was definitely Stiles’ new favourite hobby.  Derek cleaned like he did everything, with a glower on his face and just a hint of being overly aggressive.  He even cleaned the really gross layer of sludge at the bottom of the fridge, his werewolf powers no match against something that had been putrefying in a powerless box for six years, slowly (and Stiles was guessing here) fossilizing around small chunks of food and the skin off of onions, which always was what Stiles found in the bottom sludge of the fridge when his father got super creative about punishments once every five years or so.

When Derek went to go pour out his gross water, the kitchen sink practically sprayed it back at him, rivulets of disgusting brown water sloshing to the floor.

“Oh no!” Stiles mocked, giving Derek a voice-over narration.  “I despair of everything.  Fuck my life!”

Too dramatic?  Probably.

Derek just grabbed fresh water and a new cleaning cloth, got down on his hands and knees and started cleaning the floor.

“What do you mean I should always work on my knees?” Stiles ad-libbed.  “I’m not Cinderella.  The mice in my cupboards don’t come keep me company as I scrub!”

“I’m Derek, I… oh wow, I really wriggle my ass while cleaning the floor in my super tight jeans that look like they’re…” Stiles adjusted the telescope focus just the tiniest bit.  “Dude,” he addressed directly, “how are you even wearing underwear?  _Are you wearing underwear_?”

“I need to stop,” Stiles decided, this time speaking for himself as he moved away from the window. 

x.x.x.x.x.

“Why does your couch smell like a homeless man slept on it?” Stiles asked the next time he and Scott were in Derek’s house, sitting at a startlingly nice bar-height table set. 

The chairs were leather.  That was weird, right?  Derek’s couch expelled enough dust to give someone black lung, but his dining room set had leather seats, leather seats that didn’t look like they had withstood the test of time.

Derek crossed his arms and stared at his couch. 

Scott turned red.  “No!” he answered quickly to a question that wasn’t even asked.  “We’re looking at maps, see? We needed the table.”

“I hadn’t really noticed.  I don’t really sit on it,” Derek explained.  “But if Stiles noticed…”

“Cough.” Stiles said, weakly coughing into his fist.  “Cough.”

Derek scowled.  “Don’t quote Zoolander at me.”

Wait, Derek knew Zoolander?  Oh man, but most of Stiles’ material about Derek came from Zoolander!  Last week he’d made a reference about it being a bad idea for Derek to challenge anyone to anything that may have gone something like: _but Derek! You know what happened the last time you challenged someone to a walkoff!_

That’s right, no wonder Derek had brushed him off like he didn’t understand the reference.  It wasn’t because Derek didn’t know the movie.

It was because Derek _didn’t wear underwear_.

“Wait.  What do you mean ‘if Stiles noticed?’ That’s because I only have human olfactory senses, right?”

“It does explain things,” Derek answered unconvincingly, giving Stiles the impression that Stiles’ _sense_ of smell hadn’t been what he meant.

x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was a grade A asshole, which was why Stiles laughed his way through watching Derek clean the couch with a rented steamer.

The fact that Derek’s face looked relaxed as he worked didn’t even strike Stiles until after he had stepped away from the window when Derek left in order to return the steamer, Stiles watched Peter Gabriel’s music video for Steam once practically dying of the hilarity (he’d had to use the search parameters ‘steam + song’ but it had been worth the effort).  Then he went downstairs for supper and chuckled through making his father steamed broccoli, only to really think about why he was laughing.

Derek with a steamer? Ok, yeah, that was a little funny because _Derek_.

But Derek cleaning his couch, giving the appearance of someone who was relaxed and almost enjoying one small moment of normalcy?

Yeah, totally funny too because **_Derek_**.

But also, kind of not, like Stiles was the grade A asshole in this scenario for judging someone for putting his life together.

x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was waxing his floors.

_Derek was waxing his floors._

**DEREK WAS WAXING HIS FLOORS.**

Stiles thought this might be kind of unprompted, because he’d never mentioned splinters or anything and he didn’t think Scott really noticed things like scuff marks.  The floors weren’t actually in terrible shape, probably because no one had really used them in more than half a decade, but there Derek was, cleaning them down and prepping them for a veneer of wax.

Man, housework was so much easier when you were a werewolf, Stiles decided.  Derek had managed to move both his couch and his table set fully into the kitchen on his own, and he didn’t seem to be allowing the wax to control him, unlike the one time his dad had tried with the laminate in the kitchen and there was still a ridge where he accidentally applied too much and then couldn’t get the build-up off even with a paint scraper.  He did, however, scratch the floor surface.  There had been a lot of swearing that day.

Stiles knew that the processes were kind of different, what with Derek’s floor being real wood and all, but all he could think of was that it turned out that Derek was good at something.

Waxing his wood.  There was a really dirty joke in there somewhere and Stiles wouldn’t have to look very hard to find it.

Derek finished quickly, surveyed the room with a pleased expression and left.  Stiles was able to follow the route the Camaro took downtown right up until Derek crossed Main and out of the range of the telescope.

Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek did for the rest of the day, but there was no way Stiles was sticking around watching him for the entire afternoon.

That was the intention, anyway.  But by the time he got back from playing a game of catch with Scott, it was dusk and Derek was standing in his living room staring at his floors with a strange look on his face.  Stiles would label it constipation, but Derek’s constipation look was for when he was impatient, and this was a different expression than that.  Stiles could tell these things, even over the distance of a few blocks… His telescope was really good, ok? It was like he was standing right next to Derek.

And Derek definitely had a weird emotionally constipated expression on his face.

Derek stepped into one of Stiles’ blindspots and Stiles craned his neck to try to give the angle some wriggle room. Only, it wasn’t like he could change the location of Derek’s window, now could he?

“Holy shit!” Stiles exclaimed, almost knocking over the telescope as Derek slid into view.

Literally slid.

As in, Derek had run from the kitchen door and was now sliding across his newly waxed floor in his sock feet.

He did it again in the opposite direction and then was back into Stiles’ blind spot, where he remained as Stiles got progressively more disappointed, because come on Derek, twice wasn’t enough fun to make up for almost a year of misery.

Then Derek slid back out, turning mid-slide all Risky Business.

And huh, so Derek did wear underwear.  Stiles would have lost that bet.

Derek’s thighs, though, were all sculptured muscle and hotness, which was a bet Stiles wouldn’t have lost because _hello?_ Derek was kind of the crowned ruler of the land of Extremely Tight Pants.  Everyone could guess that his thigh muscles were shaped like Derek did a 30 mile triathlon every day.

It hadn’t been a game to try to figure out the general size and shape of Derek’s dick through them, but Stiles thought it might be now, because Derek’s black boxer briefs were tight and awesome but they were also sucking the light and shape right out of Derek’s general crotch area.  And Stiles was so close.  So close to being able to see more than the confines of denim allowed, because he had theories ok? 

It might help if Derek stopped moving, because he was now full out dancing in his living room, socked feet sliding left and right as Derek pulled moves right out of the seventies and then transitioned into the moonwalk.

Stiles made a super undignified squealing sound that he turned into a cough the moment he was able to function like a normal human being in the face of Derek moonwalking across his freshly waxed hardwood floor.

Stiles was kind of… intrigued?

He was going with intrigued, because ‘turned on’ and ‘emotionally turned on’ just weren’t working on him.  He’d need to go through a stage of denial first, because _hell no_.

This was Derek.

_Derek._

**_Derek Hale._ **

Derek Hale being super adorkable and dancing alone in his living room, doffing an imaginary hat and everything.  Stiles almost wanted to weep in mourning for his old perception of Derek the angstmeister sitting in the dark brooding. 

Stiles kind of wanted to reach out and touch Derek, not in an indecent way, though there was also that, but mostly in a way that would ground him to the reality that this Derek in front of him was a real aspect of Derek’s character.  It was really kind of upsetting and jarring that Stiles knew the reacting-to-grief and reacting-to-stress Derek better than the unwinding Derek.

Though, to be fair, Derek probably didn’t unwind at all during the entire first months of their not-friendship.  The most relaxed he probably was that entire time was when he was paralysed in the pool.

That wasn’t helping Stiles’ crisis any.  Neither was the fact that Derek wasn’t necessarily any good at dancing, but when Stiles took into consideration Derek’s usual modus operandi for navigating through rooms, his dancing was pretty spectacular in comparison.

Derek was doing some kind of hip shake thing across his floor now… possibly a hula thing?  A belly dancing thing? A salsa thing?  Watching one season (ok, three) of Dancing with the Stars did not prepare him for this.

Whatever it was, Derek’s abs were really working it, and Stiles really wanted to touch him indecently now, and pet him and then maybe take him on a date and talk Derek into buying him dessert as well as a burger.

Fuck, what was that supposed to mean?

Stiles pretty much thought it meant he’d been watching Derek through his telescope too much.  It was starting to get weird now.  He should go to bed, but he didn’t want to miss anything Derek potentially did.

Derek was supposed to be the creepiest, and now that mantle was falling firmly on Stiles’ shoulders.

 _Hey, what are you up to? I’m starving._ He ended up texting to Derek’s phone.  He could see it vibrating on the small table beside the couch and Derek’s head jerked towards it, his entire body just ceasing motion like the small pieces of joy he was able to find had been snatched out of the air.  Stiles watched as Derek moved towards the table, shoulders tense and body a rigid line.

He read the text on his screen, eyebrows drawn downwards in the center and mouth turning down at the corners.  Stiles noticed because apparently he didn’t just send Derek texts, he actually wanted to see Derek’s reaction to them and maybe share a small part of Derek’s evening in a way that wasn’t completely, unrepentant stalking.

But Derek just tossed his phone aside with a visible sigh and settled onto his now-clean couch, reaching one of his arms above his head as he turned off the lamp and blanketed his living room with darkness.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Stiles had been under the impression that Derek was a funsuck.  Seeing the evidence that to Derek, Stiles was the funsuck was kind of sucky and not at all fun.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was…

Oh fuck it, Derek was sitting on his couch reading and Stiles was sitting on his computer chair with his eye firmly attached to his telescope watching Derek flip through the pages.

Stiles wasn’t even sure what he was doing with his life.  It wasn’t like he could read the book over Derek’s shoulder (which would actually be so creepy it would jump right over his ‘weird’ threshold and into ‘I need professional help’ threshold), the telescope wasn’t that good.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Stiles had gotten into the habit of moving the angle of the telescope away from the town and back towards the sky when he was thirteen.  It was now so ingrained into his psyche that he remembered to do it even when he was leaving the room to use the bathroom or get a snack.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time watching for alien lifeforms this month,” his dad said from his doorway, all faux casual as he leaned against the wall.  The irony of it was that Stiles was lounging across his bed reading a book and not in front of the telescope at all.

“Perseids,” Stiles reminded him, and actually it was kind of true.  When Stiles got bored of staring at Derek, sometimes he actually looked at the sky.

His dad looked through the telescope and hummed noncommittally.  “You’ll let me know if any of the meteors crash down to earth and threaten the safety of Beacon Hills, right?”

“Sure thing, dad,” Stiles shrugged.  “Though I’m sure you’d know around the same time I would.  The night sky might be expansive, but it’s kind of hard to miss that.”

“I’ll be at my Fantasy Football league,” his father reminded him.  “It’s at the pub across the street from Derek Hale’s new place.”

Internally Stiles jerked like he had been electrocuted, but since that was a common occurrence with his dad, Stiles managed a bland smile and a shrug over all his internal screaming.  “Fantasy Football?  What’s next? Wednesday night bowling?  Parcheesi?”

“You don’t even know what Parcheesi is.”

“If it’s not a cheesy pizza with parmesan on it, I don’t care.”

“True facts.  Good night, son.”

“Have fun dad.”

The moment he heard the front door slam and his father start his car, Stiles was diving out of bed to check the telescope, worried that it was still pointed at Derek’s flat. 

It wasn’t.

“Good guess, old man,” Stiles muttered, spanning the scope back down to city limits.  Ah, there was Derek’s flat, but Derek wasn’t in his living room like he usually was this time of night, which meant that something foul was afoot!  Or Derek was out having fun, whichever was more likely.

Yeah… something dangerous was going down, Stiles was sure of it!

But once he checked all the other windows he noticed that the bedroom light upstairs was on, which was odd because the room was typically empty.  Except… except there was a bed now.  With mattresses and everything.

And Derek’s feet sticking out from beneath a white comforter.  Stiles couldn’t really see Derek’s head or upper body, but he recognized Derek’s typical reading position.

Dammit, watching Derek’s bare feet was not fun, not fun at all.

Only… only his phone seemed to be on the foot of the bed and Stiles saw that as an opportunity.

 _Saw someone delivering a bed to your address today. If you need some help on how to properly use it, I’m available._ Stiles texted to Derek.

He was gleeful for the first moment it vibrated and Derek’s foot kicked over, almost knocking it off the bed as he did what was probably an uncomplicated stomach crunch of his abdominal muscles to reach a sitting position.  Then Stiles realized what he had actually texted, which was possibly one of the more inappropriate things he’d ever said to Derek, and cringed.

Waaaay smooth, Stilinski.

Derek looked at his screen and smirked, fingers moving quickly over his phone as he composed a response.  Then he tossed it back into his lap and stared at the screen.

Stiles looked down at his own phone for a full minute before realizing that Derek hadn’t actually responded to him.

Derek picked up his phone again, frowning now as he typed something and then held the phone up in front of his face, scowling at it.

Stiles reassessed his original text.  It wasn’t so bad, actually.  Maybe he wasn’t terrible at this flirting thing.

Derek’s fingers moved over the phone again, he looked at it, shook his head and then tossed his phone aside.

Stiles waited for another minute before realizing that the asshole hadn’t answered him back.  It took a second minute for the idea that maybe Derek was texting someone else hit him, and a third minute before Stiles understood how ludicrous it was to think Derek had texting buddies who weren’t part of their immediate circle.

Stupid, right?

Only, Derek probably hadn’t lived his life along on an island, even a metaphorical one, so it wasn’t entirely impossible that he knew other people.

Right?

Right.

But the more Stiles though about it, the more it seemed like Derek’s frustration was because he hadn’t been able to think of anything to say back – or, more specifically, he hadn’t wanted to send his first response, or his second, or his third, and instead sent nothing, sitting on his new comfortable bed with the tension back in his shoulders.

It was official, Stiles was Derek’s funsuck.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Stiles would have to find a way to prove to Derek that he could be awesome instead.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was sprawled out on his couch, a magazine spread open against his knees.  Stiles waited anxiously until he put the magazine down, because if there was one thing he didn’t want happen, it was interrupting Derek doing something relaxing and having to see the effort it took for him to get back into a kind of personal tranquility. 

He thought, though, that maybe he should make the effort to ensure that Derek knew he didn’t have to be on the defensive every time Stiles’ name flashed across his phone screen, or every time he saw Stiles outside of emergency werewolfy business.

So, Stiles did what was probably considered a bad idea to 90% of the people in the world: he called Derek the moment Derek stood, stretched, and moved towards his kitchen.

“I don’t want to be the funsuck,” Stiles blurted out the moment Derek fished his phone out of his jeans.

“What?” Derek asked, visibly jerking in place.  “What do you…”

“Funsuck. I don’t want to be yours.”

“Okay… I wasn’t.  I wouldn’t.”  Derek sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, tense as he paced across the expanse of his living room.  Don’t go in my blind spot, Stiles mentally urged, just as Derek turned on his heel and paced back.  “It wouldn’t just be for fun.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what do you think funsuck means?”

“I don’t know, what do you think it means?” Derek asked, frustration evident in his tone as he stepped towards the window, staring out of it with a frown across his face.

Stiles floundered for a second.  “Jesus Christ, Derek, look it up on urban dictionary!  I’m not the one who would funsuck a fun su… actually, I’m hanging up now so we don’t have more confusion over this.”

 _It wouldn’t just be for fun._ Holy shit.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Derek actually practiced jumping down his spiral staircase. It was the most beautiful shit he'd ever seen.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

There were certain things Stiles hadn’t been able to see through his telescope but could make a pretty educated guess about, such as the fact that the entire flat was now clean, Derek seemed to have a weird aversion towards curtains (awesome), and that Derek had just as a direct view to Stiles’ bedroom as Stiles had to his.  From the windows in the living room Stiles was only able to see his bedroom ceiling, he’d checked very carefully that night with the maps, but now that Derek was sleeping in the loft area, there was a whole new angle to take into account.

“This is my private room,” Derek growled from the entrance.

“Yawn,” Stiles said.  “The only furniture in here is a bed.”

“I like it,” Derek answered, defending his choice of furniture.  “It’s unencumbered.”

Stiles could mock him, and kind of wanted to, but he’d also watched Derek and observed that content look on his face when he moved the bed three inches to the left and about half a foot away from the wall and found the perfect patch of sunlight to bask in during the early mornings when he wasn’t getting up early to exercise.

And Stiles knew how pathetic that was, ok?  Not Derek, the fact that Stiles had watched it all like a supreme creepazoid.

Because Derek? Yeah, Derek was really adorable.

“The offer to teach you how to use your bed is still on the table,” Stiles blurted out as Derek’s eyes narrowed out the window as though he was suddenly actually taking in the view.  The view to Stiles’ bedroom, shit.

“I know how to use my bed, Stiles.  I’ve had a bed all my life.  Don’t think I didn’t notice you distracting me from the subject – this is my bedroom, and whether there is someone invited into it is between me and my bed.  So leave.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, momentarily jealous until he realized that if Derek had anyone else around, Stiles would know.  Because Stiles was Derek’s stalker now.

“How private can it be when any asshole in downtown Beacon Hills can look into your window?”

Derek stood beside him, staring out the window as well.   “Maybe I like to be able to see the stars.”

Derek, unlike Stiles, probably actually meant stars and didn’t use it as an allegory to see dick the way Stiles could admit he meant it with Derek.  Derek’s jeans were still the worst and Stiles still had his theories, he decided, checking for a third time that afternoon.  Those theories dictated (ahaha) that either there was a reason Stiles couldn’t see anything, or there was a pleasant surprise waiting for him to discover.

Maybe he’d put in a call into the International Astronomical Union reporting a previously undiscovered supernova in Derek Hale’s pants.

x.x.x.x.x.

“Why don’t you ever masturbate with the light on?” Stiles yelled at Derek in frustration.

x.x.x.x.x.

Derek was making a roast, all domestic and shit, and it was seriously weirding Stiles out more than the rest of it had.  Through it all, Derek’s eating habits had remained constant, kind of highlighting the fact that Derek was a bachelor who was probably around the age of either being a college senior or starting his young professional career.

Basically, he ate a bunch of pre-made crap with various levels of nutritional value. The cheese fries Derek had systematically lowered into his mouth, for instance, were neither healthy for Derek’s body or for Stiles’ brain.

(leaning back over the edge of his counter in order to get the stringy cheese all in one bite, neck stretched and back curved indecent; then he sucked the grease off his fingers, tongue flicking out and throat swallowing and fuck, Stiles hadn’t even managed to stumble away from the telescope before unzipping his jeans and getting himself off)

The cheesy fry incident might have melted Stiles’ brain, but he’d been under the impression that Derek had no idea how to cook.  Derek was probably under the same misconception, because he kept consulting the recipe on his phone and frowning as he took twice as long to prep the cut of meat than he really needed, continually fussing over spreading the savory mixture over it.

Stiles thought it was hilarious, ok?  So what if he was trying to be kind of nicer to Derek, the man was actually taking the Martha Stewart perfection thing to heart and it was _funny_.

Derek slid the roaster into his oven and Stiles just had time to wonder what other ridiculous things Derek could do with his afternoon – macramé, maybe – when Derek answered his phone, frowning the entire time before bolting out the door.

Stiles ended up texting Scott to make sure nothing major was happening because Derek only openly hurried when something was really wrong.  Most of the time he gave the illusion of casualness and just appeared places, so Stiles was a little worried.

But not worried enough to turn down the fact Scott had a spare ticket to an afternoon matinee of the newest superhero movie.  They came out of it with a cool new trick Scott wanted to try, which was awesome because Scott was a real superhero and not an actor playing a dude playing another dude.

It took him about an hour to realize Derek still wasn’t home.

Shit. It had been about five hours since Derek had been called away and Stiles could see the smoke start to curl out of his oven, a darkened sheen to the air in the kitchen that wouldn't be noticeable at this distance without the foreknowledge of Derek preparing his roast. Stiles' first thought was _damn that sucks_. He pictured Derek's face of abject failure when he walked in the door and realized the roast he had spent so much trouble on was ruined, burned into an inedible lump of coal.

Stiles shook his head a little and grinned because oh man, Derek’s face.

Stiles watched as the kitchen became a little thicker with the smoke, and he realized that it actually wasn’t funny.  Derek would come home to that.  He’d open the door and be struck by the scent of smoke – and he might even expect it, considering he was late and he knew there was something in the oven.  But scent memory was said to be one of the worst, and Stiles had seen Derek face a few things that smelled of fire and smoke without flinching, but a campfire was not the same as walking into his flat to the scent of smoke heavy on the air, permeating his home. 

And that? That was just unfair.

Was it breaking into someone’s place if Stiles knew the door wasn’t locked?

What if he only knew the door was unlocked because he unlocked it with his lock-picks?

He actually knew the answer to that, Sheriff’s son and all, and the fact he could smell the smoke from the roast even from the hallway was on his side.  The easy part was swinging open the door and running into the living room, not pausing in his rush from his bedroom to the kitchen until he was forced to look around for Derek’s oven mitts.

By the time he found them, the oven was off and Stiles had made the mistake of opening up the door to dispel the heat, but the only thing the oven dispelled was a cloud of smoke so thick that he ended up choking on the fumes as he continued searching for a way to remove the roaster.

Derek would probably find it easier to take the burning pan out of the oven, but Stiles managed to grab it and dump the entire thing in the sink, fearing the worst.  But there weren’t any flames, just the stink of charred meat and a lump of coal adhered to the bottom of the pan, distorting the thin metal in a way that told Stiles he should just throw the whole thing out without waiting for Derek to pass judgment.

The kitchen still smelled of smoke when he got back from the dumpster, so Stiles went through the process of opening the windows and ineffectually waving around a dishcloth with the hopes of creating some air circulation before Derek got back to a kitchen that still reeked of burned meat.

His eyes were still watering when he heard a sound behind him, an involuntary wounded sound that had Stiles spinning on his heel to find Derek staring at him from the doorway of the apartment, car keys dangling from his fingers and threatening to fall to the floor for a split second before Derek pulled himself together, eyes shuddering into an emotionless expression.

There. That look. Ultimately, Stiles had failed because it had been impossible for him to clear the scent of smoke from the air, even with all the windows opened and the entire roaster tossed into the garbage dumpster out back, and Derek had walked in to the scent of smoke, that look crossing his face.

“I'm really thinking pizza" Stiles said as Derek stood, paralyzed, in the entrance to the kitchen, taking in the open door of the oven with that careful, guarded expression he wore to hide when he was really fucking terrified.

x.x.x.x.x.

Turned out Derek watched superhero movies too, because he nailed the particular stunt Scott had unsuccessfully tried five times.  Stiles wasn’t even sure Derek did it on purpose, he just really seemed to love performing various parkour off the loft railing and into his living room.

It was one of those times he really regretted not being able to text Derek things that let on he was watching, such as: extra points for degree of difficulty – I’d sign the petition to make loft jumping an Olympic sport. Go for Gold.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Stiles loved it the few mornings he managed to wake up and catch Derek doing his morning work out all sweaty and undeterred by the afternoon heat.

Not that Derek got deterred by the afternoon heat, Stiles was pretty sure.  It was Stiles who couldn’t enjoy watching Derek sweat when it was like a hundred degrees outside, and not even a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, a hundred degrees in some other unit for measuring temperature that amounted to the fact it was so hot it could boil the sun and Derek’s dumb abs coated in a sheen of sweat, giving the appearance that Stiles’ hand could slick right over them, didn’t help.

 _It’s so hot,_ he texted Derek right after Derek had finished his workout and wandered over to the window, opening his arms to welcome the slight breeze carrying over land from the Pacific.  _How can you stand it?_

Derek looked down at his phone, a small smile playing across his mouth. 

**New text from Derek:**

Werewolves aren’t impervious to temperatures, our bodies just handle them better.

 _That amounts to the same thing, dickhead!_ Stiles texted back _.  While you’re going about your day like normal, I’m so hot I can’t even put on a shirt without shuddering.  Though, that seems normal to you too._

Derek outright smiled this time.

**New text from Derek:**

_Does the Bowling place still have air conditioning?_

**New text from Derek:**

_It’s a shame that shirts are required apparel._

x.x.x.x.x.

Aside: Derek sucked at bowling just about as much as he sucked at dancing.

x.x.x.x.x.

**New text from Derek:**

_I’m thinking about getting curtains._

No.

Oh no.

This would mean the end of everything.

 _Do you think you need them?_ Stiles wrote back.

**New text from Derek:**

_I walk around my bedroom naked and I’m always conscious of what people can see._

Yeah, Stiles was aware because he hadn’t seen _anything_.

_I think you’re good, man.  I’ve never seen anything._

**New text from Derek:**

_No?_

x.x.x.x.x.

“Why won’t you masturbate on top of the covers!” Stiles yelled at Derek one bright morning at the asscrack of dawn after Stiles had woken up for a drink of water and had compulsively checked on Derek, only to find… well….

Derek was definitely awake.

And relaxed.

And using his bed the way Stiles secretly wanted to see Derek using it.

Only he couldn’t see much of anything.

Asshole.

x.x.x.x.x.

It wasn’t so much division of territory as it was dividing duties within the territory both Scott and Derek felt some sort of claim and entitlement to.  So out came the maps again.

It said a lot about the success of their plans as a whole, that Stiles was the only one who figured out that they were looking at it upside down, so Stiles got to be the one who ‘navigated’ his finger around the streets of Beacon Hills.

Yay for Stiles.

Though he kind of suspected Derek was a huge faker, because his hip was pressed against one of Stiles’ asscheeks and Stiles was about 80% sure there was room around the table for Derek to be able to see without giving Stiles the urge to grind his ass back against Derek’s hip.

“I saw it here,” Derek pointed to a small green patch that denoted a park in the middle of downtown.

“Here,” Scott answered, finger pressing against the parking lot of the hospital.

“And again over in the field behind the mall,” Derek said, finger tracing across the map, “so… about here.”

“Guys…” Stiles spoke up, after he finished marking each of their points with little flags.  “What if there are two chimeras?”

“Chimera?” Derek asked.  “I said it looked like a goat.”

Stiles floundered.  “Yes, but… head of a goat, body of a lion, and whatever the snake bits are for. Deep penetration or venom or whatever.”

“It’s a goat.”

“Why are you guys hunting a goat?”  Then he gasped, scandalized.  “You’re not going to eat it, are you?”

“No!” Scott yelped.  “Just… what if it gets hit by a car?  It can’t just keep running around downtown Beacon Hills, Stiles, it’s not safe.”

Derek nodded somberly.  “It could cause accidents even if it doesn’t get injured.”

“It could startle old ladies into falling with their walkers,” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“That would be terrible,” Scott agreed.

Wow, Stiles was so done with this conversation.  He’d been done with this conversation the moment Derek leaned forward and suggested which section of the downtown area Scott should take for their big pacifist goat hunt, his hips practically aligning with Stiles’ in a very interesting manner.  He slipped his phone out of his pocket, intent on checking for texts or Facebook notifications, or anything to distract himself from the idea of pushing back against Derek.

Slyly, his eyes shifted over to Derek and he had the message composed and sent before he could think better of it, which was the only way to do these things, really.  They’d been flirting.  It would be fine.

_I want to grind my ass back against your cock. Would you already be hard?_

Derek reached for his phone when it vibrated in his pocket.  They were so close, Stiles could feel the vibrations down the length of his thigh.  He knew the moment Derek read the message because he jolted in place and then took a step away from Stiles, eyes very intent on the map as his fingers tapped out a quick response on his phone.

Stiles bit his lip as his phone chimed with a new alert, eyes casting over to Derek for a hint.

It looked like the hint was avoidance.  Shit.

**New text from Derek:**

_Yes._

x.x.x.x.x.x.

They must have located the goat pretty quickly, or animal control beat them to it, because Stiles had time to go home, eat supper, play a very short game of Halo, and check his telescope before getting more in-depth with the gaming action.

It was a good thing he did, too, because Derek was stretched out, shirtless, across the foot of his bed.

Derek was spread along the end of his bed, all sleek lines and curved musculature of his torso on display. 

Derek was beautiful and suggestive and the start of every single fantasy Stiles had had about him.

“Whoa,” Stiles said as Derek’s head fell back over the side of the bed, exposing his neck and tilting his face into Stiles’ view. Stiles inhaled shakily as Derek’s eyelashes fluttered, hands slid down his chest and stomach.  His left hand stayed over his stomach, fingers tucked slightly into the waistband of his jeans as his right hand continued slowly over the tough denim, stroking over his cock in unhurried strokes.

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathed.

He was officially a voyeur.

Stiles watched, swallowing convulsively around his closed throat as Derek continued to touch himself with deliberate caresses, each one slightly stronger than the last.  Stiles could almost hear the rasp of Derek’s hand against his jeans, small pants, almost like sighs, emerging from his mouth and the way he swallowed back a moan after a long, squeezing stroke that had his eyelashes fluttering and his throat vibrating with the sensation.

That’s when Stiles realized that he could hear it because he was echoing Derek’s every movement and the sounds were coming from him.

Christ.

He was officially the sketchy kind of voyeur now.

Stiles could make out the shape of Derek’s cock now, hard and heavy beneath his hand and pressing against the zipper and seams of his pants in a way that had to be slightly painful as Derek lost some of his finesse and started grinding his palm down in steady strokes.

Holy shit.  Supernova.

Probably, Stiles couldn’t say with 100% accuracy.

Derek’s hips jerked forward slightly, arching off the bed in a supine twist that was almost unrealistically hot in a classy erotica way rather than a porn way.  Only, Stiles wasn’t able to get the full experience of Derek’s abs in stark relief because his hand was in the way.

“Move your hand,” he hissed, basically into the telescope.  Derek’s right hand stopped caressing himself over his jeans, fingers slipping inside of his pants.  Stiles wasn’t sure how Derek was even finding room to do anything in the kind of tight jeans he typically wore, but now he couldn’t see anything because Derek hadn’t moved the hand Stiles needed him to.   “Your other one.  Derek.  I can’t see.”

After a pause, just enough time that Stiles wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence or not, Derek’s left hand trailed back up over his stomach, along his ribs, thumb pressing against his nipple for a moment as his right hand began to rub in more rapid motions, forearm tensing.  Derek’s free arm came up and he hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow as his body twisted to the left, writhing sideways.

For a second Stiles thought that was it, that Derek had finished without even taking off his pants.  Then he noticed the frustrated expression on Derek’s face as both his hands returned to the front of his jeans, fingers quickly, almost frantically, undoing the button and zipper of his pants and shoving them half-way down his thighs.

Oh god, yes.  Stiles licked his lips, anticipating the last step of Derek removing his boxer briefs and completely exposing himself to Stiles’ gaze.

He’d been waiting so long.  Derek had somehow, likely unwittingly, perfected the art of tantalizing the people watching him through his window with glimpses and hints and no actual eyefuls of naked flesh.

But he didn’t remove the boxers.  Instead, he stuck his hand back under the elastic band of the underwear and kept stroking his cock in a way that definitely wasn’t racing towards any finishing line.  Of course, Derek decided to have a leisurely masturbatory session the moment Stiles had actually caught him in the act.  Thanks a lot, Derek.

“You’re such a tease,” Stiles muttered, and this time he was confident that the delay between his words and Derek smirking back up at him was too short to be a coincidence.

Holy shit.

Holy shit, Derek, what…

HOLY SHIT DEREK!! Stiles entered into his phone and then deleted it. 

“Take them off,” he said instead, throat tight with a combination of need and the surprising difficulty of getting suggestions past his brain to mouth filter now that he knew someone was listening and possibly obeying them.

Derek’s thumbs hooked into the waistband of his boxer-briefs, tugging them down.  Stiles leaned forward in his chair, shifting as he tried to change the angle as Derek curled forward, stripping off his pants entirely.  Stiles eagerly removed his own pants, kicking them towards his bed as he stood in his bedroom completely naked, eye affixed to the telescope as Derek fell back onto his bed, now completely exposed to the dusky light filtering in through his windows.

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” Stiles said to Derek, and maybe voicing things wasn’t so difficult now that he could see the way Derek reacted, slightly pleased but also slightly uncertain.  “Fucking obscenely hot, do you know that? I’ve been thinking about what you look like naked for ages now, and I never got so much as a glimpse. It’s been driving me insane.  And if you’re actually listening to me, I know you actually have to concentrate to hear me at this distance so god, Derek, you know what you’re doing to me. And I guess I know what I’m doing to you.”

Stiles frowned as Derek reached over for his phone, his heart beat racing with misplaced jealousy at Derek calling someone now.

Stiles’ flail was almost full-body as his phone rang in his jeans, and he slammed his eye into the eyepiece of the telescope in his haste to reach it, fumbling with his free hand ineffectually for a moment before he was able to retrieve his cell.

“Hello?” he tried for nonchalant and ended up cringing at how breathless his voice was, mentally rolling his eyes at himself.  He couldn’t see Derek anymore, and had to settle for looking out the window with his normal eyes, feeling almost blind for it.

“You know that I can see right back into your window from here, right?” Derek asked.

Stiles paused, swallowing back guilt and embarrassment. “Yeah,” he finally answered truthfully, bracing his hand against the wall next to his window and leaning forward, hand flexing around the head of his erection as he dragged his hand downwards with a groan.  Let Derek get a taste of his own machinations.  “That’s why I started to leave my blinds open.”

“Christ, Stiles,” Derek groaned.

“Are you calling me to give me fair warning?” Stiles teased.  “Because as great as it is to actually hear you now, I can’t see a thing.”

“Invest in a pair of binoculars,” Derek suggested snidely.  “I can’t see you when you sit behind the telescope.”

“Yeah?” Stiles answered, breathless with the idea that Derek was watching him back.  It was empowering to know that the reason Derek groaned was because Stiles picked up the pace, arching his back and flexing his arm where it was braced against the window so the phone was trapped firmly between his shoulder and ear.

He was probably going to get in so much trouble for this with anyone who happened to look up into his window while driving by or from their living room.  Stiles didn’t even care because Derek was making small gasping sounds against his ear and he was so close to coming that he was probably going to brain himself on the window and fall to the floor.

“God Stiles,” Derek said. “Do you know what it’s like to know I’m always on display for you?”

“Good?” Stiles guessed.

Derek grunted sharply and inhaled in his ear. 

“Like I had to always know what you were doing.  Check in on you when I woke up and before I went to sleep.  Made me realize that I did that anyway, from the moment I moved in.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asked, eyes fluttering against the pleasurable sensation building through his blood.  He felt acutely aware that Derek was watching him now and Stiles was the one on display.  The thought made his thigh muscles quiver and strain with the weight. 

“Back then,” Derek continued almost easily, “I didn’t deliberately listen to you fingering yourself on Saturday mornings.”

Stiles laughed, almost a whimper. He was so close, it would just take a few more strokes.  His arm was shaking from trying to hold him in a standing position, and he had lost all deliberateness in his movements.  “Did you…?” not really sure what he was asking.

“I think I should teach you how to use your bed.”

Stiles came apart, gasping through an orgasm with Derek’s name on his lips and Derek’s voice in his ear.  Apparently it was snark that did it for him, which wasn’t actually as concerning as it should be.

By the time Stiles figured out that he somehow hadn’t fallen on his ass, but had dropped the call, Derek wasn’t answering his phone.  Stiles just had time to scramble over to his telescope to catch the end of the show, Derek’s head thrown back and eyes closed as he came all over his hand and torso.

Damn.  Derek had gone supernova.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, [I'm on tumblr.](http://relenafanel.tumblr.com/) For better or for worse, til death do us part.


End file.
